


Say My Name

by patrickswayze



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 08:58:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6899548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrickswayze/pseuds/patrickswayze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pet name</p><p><i>noun</i><br/>a name that is used instead of someone's usual first name to express fondness or familiarity.</p><p>It always meant something. Still does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say My Name

“Hi, honey, I’m home! Is dinner ready?”

Steve heaves a sigh when he hears Bucky kicking off his shoes and taking off his jacket. Drying the last of the clean dishes, he throws the dish towel over his shoulder as Bucky rounds a corner and walks into their kitchen area.

Bucky is chuckling to himself as he settles across from Steve and leans his forearms on the kitchen island (Sam always tells them it’s a breakfast bar because of the special stools and Steve tells Sam he watches too much HGTV). He takes his hair down from the bun to scratch his scalp and yawns. Bucky languidly stretches his arms across the length of the bar and touches his forehead to the stonetop. The curvature of his spine relaxes deeper into the stretch and Steve raises an eyebrow over this little show.

He’s living with an overgrown cat, Steve thinks, a house cat with alley cat scars who naps in the sunlight whenever he can.

“Look, Buck, I don’t know who’s been lyin' to you, but I ain’t your cook, and you need to take your arms off the countertop… _kitten."_ Steve flashes him a grin.

Bucky snorts and slides his forearms off the countertop to place them gingerly in his lap. He fixes a narrow-eyed look on Steve. “Well, baby, if you don’t have dinner ready, can we get some take-out? I’m about to keel over. ”

Steve’s stomach swoops downward the tiniest bit. It might have been the way Bucky’s voice dropped in timbre when he said “baby,” or it might have been the simple fact that his stomach has always, always curled in on itself whenever this happens.

It’s a game they used to play before and during the war: one-upping each other with the most cockamamie pet names they could think up. Whoever cracked first got stuck with dishes or laundry duty. The Howling Commandos would cheer them on, and it supplied endless material for the “old married couple Steve and Bucky” schtick. They gave up keeping score years ago, but it's usually Bucky who breaks, and it's usually around the time Steve purses his lips and says something like “sugartits.”

It was one of the first things that came back to Bucky after the important stuff like his sisters’ names and the taste of sugar. Steve never brought up the game because he, quite frankly, had forgotten about it in the absence of Bucky and the presence of the Avengers. (Nowadays, Steve thinks, young people use much more graphic terms to make fun of their friends and it doesn't sit right with him.)

He mumbles something about a lasagna in the oven and Bucky rubs his hands together in anticipation. Steve walks toward their living room, glancing behind him to see Bucky spooning square after square of pasta on his plate, and spreads out on the couch. He picks up the remote and begins flipping through channels. “Oh, let’s not fight,” he says. “How was your day, peanut?"

The usual assortment of eating sounds adds to the noise of an action movie, and then he hears the kitchen chair scoot backwards before a sigh from Bucky, who plops down next to Steve and runs a hand through his hair again, watching the television but not absorbing anything.

“It was fine,” Bucky says. “Coulda been better."

Steve knows how it is in their line of work: sometimes you want to talk and sometimes you can’t; it’s harder for Bucky than most.

"You know we can talk about it if you want, and if you don't wanna talk and you wanna go out and eat chili dogs until we both puke, that's a-ok with me too."

Bucky turns his head toward Steve with a slight smile that curves slightly higher on the left. He’s saying thanks in that language of theirs that's a conglomeration of words, head tilts, and soft touches long etched into Steve's nerves. Bucky turns back towards the television.

“So whaddya wanna watch…sugar moose?"

Two beats before they both dissolve into giggles. “Sugar moose! Sugar moose! Hell, Buck, where did that—“

Bucky shakes his head back and forth, eyes scrunched up in laughter. “I don’t know! There was a documentary on in the lobby this morning!” Bucky stops laughing momentarily and looks at Steve seriously. _"They’re so big,_ Steve!"

 

* * *

  


Steve remembers the occasional instances in which the pet names turned sharply, led to something else. Bucky’d call him “sugar” and Steve would tell Bucky that he expected nothing less out of his best guy. Steve would feel a rush of color making its way to his cheeks while Bucky hunched over and tucked his hands into his pockets. Then someone would shove the other and the subject would change, nothing to worry themselves over.

Once, they were drunk and coming home from a joint with their arms around each other, holding the other up. They stumbled every third step. Steve mumbled something about going home with the biggest jerk and Bucky stopped them in the middle of the sidewalk. He put his palm at the back of Steve’s neck and looked at him with unfocused eyes. “Aw, Stevie, am I your sweetheart?"

Steve opened his mouth to say something, but Bucky beat him to it.

“Shh, I’ll tell you a secret,” Bucky whispered, one finger to his mouth. He tapped the same finger to Steve’s forehead several times before leaning in and ghosting his lips over Steve’s right ear.

“I love it."

They both wobbled as Bucky's weight shifted and he listed forward toward Steve, but they managed to stay upright.

“Can’t get enough of it when you say things like that… It’s almost like…” Bucky trailed off and laughed to himself.

Then Bucky suddenly stood straight and away from Steve and walked towards their apartment. Steve had no choice but to follow Bucky and nod his head the next morning when Bucky complained about a hangover and losing all memory of the night before.

 

* * *

  


They piece together what they can.

There are nights when Bucky wakes up and cuts off Steve’s air with a forearm to the throat. Bucky is always quiet for days afterward before he manages to pull himself out of his head.

Not so different, Steve thinks, than the steveandbucky they were from the ages of 11 to 14. They fought like cats and dogs over anything and everything, yelling and cursing, long sulks lasting forever (but in reality only lasting hours, and Sarah rolled her eyes every time it happened) eventually ending with some lighthearted roughhousing and a punch to an arm. More and more often these days, Bucky raises his voice to yell at Steve for some _dipshit stupid thing you did this time what if the helicopter hadn’t been there to pick your ass up?_ and Steve thinks good—better—the Bucky Barnes he knows would never, in a million years, be afraid to yell at Steven G. Rogers any chance he got.

After their early teenage years, their friendship was clumsy and messy like only a best friendship could be, filled with cracks and pasted together. Eventually something else seeped into the cracks, something Steve didn’t dare put words, like he was afraid the come on his sheets would prove what he tried so hard to drown out. Like somehow, the police would come by and take him away in handcuffs for the images he couldn't help but fall asleep to night after night. Back then, he would spend days sketching the lines of Bucky’s jaw and the arc of his shoulders until his eyes burned from the strain. Then he would erase whole pages while watching the shavings float to the ground, prismatic like dust specks.

  


* * *

  


He finds himself sketching, again.

"Whatcha drawing there, little peach?"

Steve twitches so hard the couch squeaks under his weight.

"Jesus Christ, Bucky. I'm gonna make you wear a little bell when you're in the house."

"I can't help it if I'm naturally graceful."

Steve flicks a wad of crumpled paper at Bucky.

 

* * *

  
  


If Steve thinks about it hard enough—which he has but wouldn’t tell a soul, and if he thinks about it before he goes to bed each night, that’s also his to hold—he and Bucky have been playing this game for years. He catches Bucky staring at him for a second too long more than once and he’s _so sure_ Bucky remembers something, or feels something. He doesn’t push it.

Steve is never sure if he’s the doe or the hunter in this situation. Is Bucky waiting to pull the trigger for them to have some god-awful conversation about the times they almost kissed or the one time they did? Did he kiss Steve so they could both get it out of their systems, or worse—out of pity? Steve mulls over the differences between a doe and a buck in his head before jerking his eyes back to the animals on the screen. They’re watching _Bambi,_ #12 on their movie re-education project. They watch movies they saw as kids and movies they missed while Bucky and Steve shipped off to war. Steve does a tiny internal fist pump when Bucky recollects on his own how Steve had looked forward to watching the Bambi animation but never actually got to see it in theaters.

When Bambi’s father comes on screen, Steve knocks his shoulder into Bucky’s like _haha you're Bucky and there's a buck!_ Bucky looks back at him with a smile that makes Steve’s throat catch. They both look away and back to the screen. The oversized popcorn bowl sitting in between their bodies is mostly empty but Steve reaches down to distract himself, and it seems Bucky has the same idea. Their hands knock against each other; a murmur of _sorry_ from Bucky; but Steve can’t imagine there’s anything to be sorry for—and stops himself before the thought that _his skin still feels the same_ goes any further. They’re watching a Disney cartoon, for chrissakes.

An internal, humming mechanism that’s been running inside him since 1937 squeaks _maybe_ before it’s shut out, down, and away.

 

* * *

  
  


The first and only time they kissed was a mess, if Steve is being honest. Bucky could’ve chosen a better day than Steve’s eighteenth birthday and a rooftop at dusk. Bucky could’ve not acted jumpy all day. Bucky could’ve smelled something other than soft and spicy when he mumbled something about a present before leaning in to press his lips against Steve’s for several seconds, opening his mouth, moving against Steve’s lips until he relaxed into the kiss. Worst of all, Bucky could’ve _not_ smiled so Steve could have avoided committing to muscle memory the sensation of Bucky’s lips curving upward before pulling back.

Rounds of fireworks came and went but they sat there on that rooftop staring at anything but each other. The silence compounded in an awful way that reminded Steve of classrooms with harsh teachers who demanded answers when he hadn't raised his hand. He sure as hell didn't have an answer now, either. He searched his mind for something, _anything,_ that could fill the air up.

The lack of light made it difficult for Steve to see; blurry, grey shapes coalesced into darkness. He squinted to focus on the popcorn ground beneath him and reached to roll a pebble between two fingers, willing, grasping the burgeoning panic down.

Steve sensed the growing horror in his best friend before Bucky did.

“Don’t mean anything, right? I’m so sorry I didn’t mean anything. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

Bucky croaked a terrible version of his laugh and rubbed his palms on his cheap, itchy pants so quickly it must have burned him. He still didn't look at Steve.

"It’s okay.” _I want you so badly I think I’m gonna choke on it. It’s okay, really, Barnes._

Fireworks exploding in the distance punctuated the night with low rumbles.

"Don’t mean anything, right, sweetheart?"

The joke fell flat when Bucky’s utter shame broke through and he finally met Steve's eyes. Steve hated him, then. Steve wasn't Bucky's or anyone's sweetheart. That much was clear.

Bucky made some excuse and ran away that night, leaving Steve to stare alone at a New York night on his birthday. The next day he started going out with Mary O’Connell. Steve clapped his shoulder and congratulated him when Bucky told him the news.

 

* * *

  
  


One afternoon, Steve comes home to find the apartment filled with flowers. Tulips, carnations in reds, whites, and mauves, lilies, and baby’s breath. The breakfast bar is lined with roses upon roses in an array of lavenders, pinks, and reds.

In particular, a daffodil and honeysuckle arrangement in the living room bursts out in yellow and Steve realizes he hasn’t spoken in several minutes.

He finds a note in the kitchen.

“Just because."

 

* * *

  
  


The last dredges of a horribly dry spring clung to the streets, and Steve had had the misfortune of getting sick. He was twelve and he could hear the thwacks of a stickball game outside his window. The door opened accompanied by lighter footsteps than his mother's.

His lips curled around the shape of the B he wanted to make, but the sounds wouldn’t leave his too-dry throat. The sickness had wasted him of all liquids, and he didn’t have the strength to walk to get more water.

In walked Bucky, holding a glass of water and his knapsack, looking like the best thing Steve had seen all week—which wasn’t a huge step up from staring at the wall or down at his sketchbook, and he told Bucky as much after he'd held Steve's head up gently and given him sips of water to swallow.

Steve smacked his mouth and rubbed at his lips. He felt the lingering spit and water settle itself themselves into the cracks of his lips and the surrounding skin.

Bucky looked up from his reading to stare openly at Steve's mouth.

“Steve, didya need—” Bucky started and didn't finish because he pushed himself off the bed and walked to the bathroom, returning with a small jar of vaseline. It was something his mom had done for Steve more than once and a kindness Bucky had picked up from watching her. Steve watched as Bucky took his left ring finger and dipped it into the tub of jelly and wiped the excess on the rim. His eyes landed somewhere on Bucky’s sideburns and he sensed rather than saw the finger moving towards his mouth. Bucky traced the edges with an even coat of protection. He dipped his finger back in and slowly patted at the fullness in the center of Steve’s lips. Satisfied with his work, Bucky returned the jar to its proper place and settled down to his schoolwork.

It wasn't long after that Steve felt himself succumbing to sleep again. He nestled himself further into the blankets, comforted by the sounds of pages turning, Bucky's slight movements, the sound of his breathing.  

 

* * *

  
  


Steve makes a terrible knock-knock joke, and Bucky chokes on his drink and glares at Steve. It’s a new source of contention; in this century Bucky hates knock-knock jokes, and Steve loves annoying Bucky, so, naturally, he picked up a book. It also helps that Steve is a _smidgen_ faster and can usually run away if Bucky threatens physical repercussion in the form of tickling. Turns out the serum also made his tickle spots grow in proportion to his size, a fact Bucky delights in, and swears he has to make up missing time for.

Steve holds his hands up in supplication. “I’m sorry for the knock-knock joke, darling.” Usually, starting in with the game would dissipate any tension, but Bucky whips his head around to stare at Steve with more intimacy than the moment calls for. Bucky puts down his drink and there exists a long moment where neither of them do anything and Steve feels nailed to the spot by his feet, his hands, everything he’s got. Steve isn’t sure whether he’s going to be tickled to within an inch of his life or punched in the face. He isn’t sure, by the way his adrenaline whirs, which one he would prefer.

Bucky stalks over to where Steve stands and crowds Steve’s body with his own until Steve’s back hits the nearest wall. “How are you gonna make up for it, _stud?"_

The last time they crowded each other’s space like this Bucky was whaling on Steve’s face and Steve’s jaw broke with the force of Bucky’s metal knuckles. He might prefer that, now.

They don’t do this at all in this century and they haven’t talked about it, but Bucky knows himself now, and Steve chances running his hands up and down Bucky’s sides before responding softly. “You tell me."

Bucky’s breathing changes. His eyes track a path from Steve’s eyes to his mouth and back again. “I remember."

“I hoped you might."

“When I called you sweetheart, I meant it."

The moment gets infinitely smaller, darker, deeper. It’s watching an ocean of ceruleans and purples eat themselves and funnel into a pit of black. It’s Steve’s muscles eating away at the marrow in his bones to make him anew in a metal box.

“Every single time,” Bucky whispers.

There's no playful inflection to it.

“Tell me you want it.” Bucky says, like he needs reassurance.

“I want _you._ "

Steve dips down and meets Bucky’s lips. It’s sweet and slow for savoring because now they have the time. Their lips brush against each other once, twice, again, nipping and playing. The space of time between each kiss gets faster and nearer like a thunderstorm drawing in. Finally, Steve’s mouth opens, and so does Bucky’s, and they taste each other. Steve is overcome.

He’s seventeen. He’s twenty-one. He’s ninety-one.

He’s everything at once and Bucky is right there with him to see him through.

They make their way to Steve’s bed and Bucky lands somewhere on top of him.

Bucky shifts his weight to lie on his stomach and props up his upper body on his forearms to smile at Steve, brushing loose strands of hair away from Steve's forehead. They lie in comfortable silence before Bucky, ever restless, moves to position his head on Steve’s right thigh. Bucky strokes a hipbone with his hand before putting his mouth on it, sucking hard enough to mark.

“What’re you thinking about, Buck?” Steve watches as Bucky sucks small bruises around his lower stomach like a pointillism sketch.

“That time I asked if your hands still bruised—after Italy.” Bucky’s voice has a lazy haze to it, but Steve recognizes the muted, elegiac undertone.

The first time they were alone after Steve saved Bucky, they sat side by side in an empty medic’s tent. Bucky had been quiet and unnaturally still. He smelled like something Steve would later recognize as the latent persistence of fear. Bucky had held Steve’s hands in his own and asked him if his hands still bruised when he threw a punch. Back in Brooklyn, Steve’s hands would discolor for days. He wore his broken veins like a first-place blue ribbon awarded for managing to land a punch. More than once, Bucky had threatened to tape Steve’s knuckles every morning if he “insisted on acting like a boxer in public."

Now, Steve doesn’t remember the exact words he said in response back in that tent, but he chuckles.

“Didn’t I say something like, ‘If I punched a tank’? Which—"

“Which we found out, yeah. Dumbass,” Bucky finishes for him. The bruises he made bloom before their conversation are already healing and fading.

Bucky climbs up and they kiss until they fall asleep.

 

* * *

  
  


“What the _fuck_ were you thinking, Steve? Reckless as _shit_ and fucking stupid!"

“You act like I’m made of fuckin’ porcelain, or something, Buck! I’m practically indestructible."

“ _You punched a metal fucking_ _tank_ and it almost blew up before you could get away. Then what—how are we gonna explain that Captain _fucking_ America died because he thought he could punch a _fucking tank_."

“They’re _Hydra_! I’m not gonna stop until they’re all _dead_. Stop pacing, you—!"

“Jesus, prefer it when all they do is call each other honey and sweetheart, know what I mean?"

“Shut the fuck up, Dugan. Bucky!"

Bucky stalked into their shared tent that lived somewhere on the edge of Austria. He didn’t stop pacing, and the light of the candle threw him into relief. For a moment, he looked like a puppet carved into the canvas of the tent. The silence was a spare being in the room, exerting, pressuring, like a man aspirating his last bits of oxygen after being gutted. Steve knew what that sounded like, now.

Steve hadn’t seen Bucky this upset in years. He stopped his pacing to turn to Steve.

“The U.S. Army didn’t draft me to come out and watch you die, Rogers. I won’t have that.” Bucky placed a hand on his hip. He was shaking.

Steve sank onto his bed and rounded his shoulders down in defeat. He’d been reckless, he knew. It was dumb luck he’d made it out of that site without any serious injuries. Bucky let out another frustrated sound.

“All that time I kept thinking, _what would I do without him_ and then you come around the bend almost fuckin’ chipper, and it—it messes with a guy, I gotta tell you."

Without waiting, Steve crossed the length of the tent and pulled Bucky into a hug transposed into a detente.

The slight difference in height had Bucky's head tucked into Steve's neck. Steve held on until he could no longer feel Bucky trembling.

“Baby, I’m not gonna leave you,” he said plainly into the side of Bucky’s head. It was what Steve had. It was a little more than tender, and less than honest.

Bucky nodded and pulled away, gesturing to his bed and removing his boots wordlessly, tucking into bed, and turning his back to Steve.

It was hours into the same night until he noticed Bucky hadn’t laughed or otherwise mentioned Steve calling him “baby” but had accepted the comfort from the name like a lover would. Steve tossed and turned and finally twisted his head toward Bucky’s sleeping form, sketching out the lines of his shoulders and back in the paper of his mind like he’d done a thousand times before.

 

* * *

  
  


They kiss, now. It’s a thing.

Steve teases Bucky about how it only took him a hundred years to see that Steve only had eyes for him, and he yelps when he fails to notice a pair of hands preparing him for death by ticking.

The kissing hasn’t gone beyond kissing and Steve is more than happy but good lord does he spend a lot of time getting acquainted with his right hand.

It happens one night at home when an argument between them shifts into kissing. Which gets very intense as they maneuver to the living room couch, Bucky landing on top.

Breaking away, panting, Bucky cards his hands through Steve’s hair. He wags his eyebrows and poses a silent question.

Steve can’t do anything but swallow and nod.

They resume kissing and when Steve jerks his hips up, Bucky’s hard. Steve hears a low sound, and he places his hand on Bucky's neck as he grinds against him. The friction isn’t enough at this angle, so Steve, desperate, hooks a leg around Bucky’s back.

They grind against each other and neither of them last very long. They clean up after each other and fall asleep in the same bed.

It’s kind of everything Steve’s ever wanted.

 

* * *

  
  


“That’s you."

“No, that’s  _you."_

 _“_ Why did they make them only six seconds long?"

“You’re definitely the bunny."

 

* * *

  
  


Steve breaks from a wet kiss to rest his forehead against Bucky’s. It’s a version of how Bucky used to check Steve’s temperature. Back then, Steve knew that it really meant _are you ok are you here with me now_ , and he’s stealing that move to use it now. They both run hot, these days, and Steve knows Bucky isn’t sick, but he’s got to know if he’s okay anyhow. Bucky makes eye contact before exaggerating an eye roll.

“I’m okay, Stevie. I want this.” He pauses, says, “Think I always have."

With that, Bucky takes Steve’s hand and leads him toward Steve’s bedroom. Bucky looks back at him at least three times in the moment it takes to walk across the apartment like he can't believe what's happening but'll be damned before anyone takes it away from him.

Their hands are quick as they pull off shirts and pants. Bucky slides his own boxers off before attending to Steve. His hands are trembling imperceptibly. He is so, so gentle. Steve feels in it an insistence, an acknowledgement that they could break each other, wreck each other, but now? He’s taking his time and Steve couldn’t be more grateful.

Bucky pushes him backwards; Steve’s knees hit the edge and he falls easily onto the bed.

Bucky whistles low and grins as he shakes his head back and forth. “Look at you, kid."

Steve feels more blood rush down to his cock; he’s never been harder in his entire life. Bucky must notice because his grin shifts into something looser.

“You like it when I call you names,” Bucky says out loud.

“Fuck, you know I do.” Steve is barely hanging on and they've only just gotten naked.

"Oh, angel," Bucky says.

At that, Steve curves his spine and thrusts his hips forward into air. Bucky is undoing him, slowly. His mind is fog and he’s aware of nothing until he feels Bucky’s presence at his legs. Bucky is on his knees and tracing the space around Steve’s legs and thighs, maddeningly ignoring what Steve wants him to touch.

With a wink, Bucky tilts down and takes the head of Steve’s cock into his mouth and swirls his tongue around. Steve watches as Bucky laps the sensitive tip. In some peripheral, animal part of his brain, enhanced by the serum, Steve notices Bucky stroking his own cock.

“You’re so wet, Steve, oh, you taste so good, baby.”

Bucky’s got one hand on the base of his cock fisting in time with his head bobbing up and down. Steve thrusts up and Bucky takes all he’s got into his mouth. Steve’s thrusting shallowly into his mouth, but Bucky clamps a hand down on Steve’s thigh, forcing him to stop. He stills—and Steve realizes that Bucky’s come just from having him in his mouth. Bucky starts again to set the pace and keeps his mouth on Steve until Steve comes, with a quiet moan, down Bucky’s throat.

Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and climbs up to rest his forehead on the side of Steve’s head, his thighs framing Steve’s hips. Steve brings his face up and nuzzles the side of Bucky’s face delicately. Bucky drags his lips against Steve’s jaw, his temple, the high and low points of his cheeks. They close their eyes and revel in the soft affection. Their cocks brush against each other every so often, but neither of them rush toward anything else.

Bucky takes Steve’s right wrist to suck a bruise into the skin. Steve can almost feel the capillaries burst and mend themselves back together again. Bucky repeats the action on Steve’s left wrist.

“What’re you thinking about, Buck?” Steve asks again.

“You. You and your pretty wrists. They stayed the same size. Unbreakable. Hell of a left hook, too. I was so scared you’d broken something that day you punched Jimmy Whatshisname... You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, you know that, dumbass?"

“You love my dumb ass,” Steve says.

Bucky stiffens and Steve’s afraid he’s made a terrible, horrible mistake in judgment. Bucky looks back at him.

“I do. You know that, right? Always have.”

Steve lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He runs his hand along Steve’s re-hardening cock and Steve starts up into the touch. He almost punches Bucky when he hears, “Round two!”

 

* * *

  
  


“Where’s the slick?"

Steve points to the bedside table and Bucky stands to find the bottle. He uncaps it and makes a show of bringing the bottle above his head and watching the viscous liquid drip on Steve’s chest. Steve's eyes widen a little.

“That…is not where I thought that was goin’.” Steve looks down at his shiny chest.

Bucky stays standing and Steve thinks he looks a little shy.

“Can—can we try something?”

Steve nods. He’d give Bucky anything.

Bucky shuffles over to the bed and straddles Steve, resting his hands on Steve’s pecs. He massages them and drags his cock across the oil on Steve’s stomach.

“These are so pretty, baby."

He strokes Steve’s nipples and moves his palms in a circular motion. Steve’s breath catches. His eyes roll into the back of his head for a brief moment. He brings his hands around the backs of Bucky’s thighs and pulls him forward. Bucky scoots and moves Steve’s hands to where his own had been a moment before. Steve gets the hint and uses his hands to push his muscles toward each other.

Bucky nestles his cock into the crevice Steve's made, and he thrusts.

“God, your tits are incredible, sweetheart."

He starts off slow and builds; his cock moves faster and faster and Steve ducks his chin down to open his mouth and lick at the head when it comes near him. He lets his chin fall back, exposing his throat, and groans at the sensation. Bucky stills and comes over Steve’s chest and neck. Shuddering and panting, he looks down, and huffs a laugh.

“I can’t believe...”

Bucky bends down to kiss Steve’s cheek, says, “I’ll clean you up, ok?”

After, they lay side by side, and Steve throws a leg over Bucky. They simply stare at each other, sated and happy.

“I do."

“Do what, Buck?"

“Love you. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Bucky pulls Steve on top. “Let’s prove it, soldier.” Their kisses are filled with intent, and they’re both hard, now; Steve sends a thankful prayer to God for quick refractory periods. He snorts at the thought, and Bucky pulls back with furrowed brows.

“Thinking about what Sister Margaret would say if she saw us now.” Steve says.

Bucky tilts his head in consideration. “She was saucy. Probably slap your ass and tell you to get going, Rogers."

 

* * *

  
  


It’s not that he acts differently. It’s that he’s got a god-awful blush that tints his skin from chest to ears every time Bucky plays the game.

It doesn’t help that Bucky has taken to using filthy metaphors every time they play and snickers endlessly at Steve’s carousel of reactions.

As of Sam’s last count:

4 spit-takes

2.5 spilled bites of marinara sauce

1 _almost_ shattered phone screen saved only by superhuman reflexes

Bucky is also tender at the most unexpected moments. Like he’s had it threatening to spill out of him for decades and now he gets to focus it on Steve like he’s always wanted. There’s the night when they showered together and Bucky asked if he could wash his hair and now head massages are a regular _need_ for Steve.

They patch each other up after missions like they did back when Steve started fights and Bucky ended them. Back then, Steve would spit out, “Thank you, sweetheart,” and Bucky would pink high on his cheeks and neither of them would mention anything. Now, Steve thanks Bucky with a _great job, babydoll_ and a kiss.

Domesticity agrees with them both, Steve thinks. And there are a thousand ways to get home.

 

* * *

  
  


“Hey, Steve?"

“Yeah?"

“You wanna sit on this fat cock, baby?"

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Bucky."

**Author's Note:**

> The arrangement of daffodil and honeysuckle translates to "please return my devoted affection"


End file.
